


stardust and sand (slipping through your fingers)

by BlackBlood1872



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Character Study, Crowley accidentally becomes Santa Claus, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Crowley makes things, Crowley the Starmaker, Gen, Light Angst, fudging with history, idk the actual origin I just read one story and ran with it, soft, this is a quiet fic idk how to tag it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:00:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25314220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackBlood1872/pseuds/BlackBlood1872
Summary: Crowley is a Maker, at his core, and Falling couldn't take that away from him. He still feels the urge, the itch in his fingertips, the aching need to create.So he does. Nothing as substantial as the stars, nothing quite that bright—but creations of his own nonetheless, things he's made despite Her restrictions.
Kudos: 28





	stardust and sand (slipping through your fingers)

He made the stars.

Well, not all of them, obviously. No one angel can make all the stars in the universe, even with all the time before Time. But he did his part, made his fair share, contributed to the greater experience. He was a Maker, back then, before he was _Crowley_ , before his name and all he made slipped through his fingers in the Fall.

He made stars and systems and galaxies, more than human eyes can see, more than he can name, now, within the confines of these human languages. He even tinkered with planets and moons, collaborating with other angels to create something unique. His fingerprint, such as it was, is all over the cosmos, and every clear night showcases the art he created.

She didn't reject what he made when She cast him down, but he can no longer hold stardust in his hands, can't feel the fabric of the universe, can't add his stamp to it. He has been cut off from it all, and that wound will always hurt.

But he is a Maker, at his core, and Falling couldn't take that away from him. He still feels the urge, the itch in his fingertips, the aching need to create. So he does—little trinkets and toys, carved wood pieces, painted rocks. Nothing as substantial as the stars, nothing quite that bright—but creations of his own nonetheless, things he's made despite Her restrictions.

He Makes, and soon enough encounters a problem: he has nowhere to put any of these creations. Before, he would sculpt stars and let them loose into the burgeoning cosmos, let them go where they wanted to go. With these trinkets made by human hands, that isn't possible. He builds up a collection, and he has nowhere to store it.

So he doesn't.

He calls up a sack to carry everything, and sets out to wander. It's winter here, in this country he's watching grow, and cold air and short days scrape raw the edges of these humans minds. The adults work slower than they did just months ago, and the children—

Crowley has always had a soft spot for children. Seeing any so despondent as these pulls at his heart, makes him want to do something drastic, something he's sure would be frowned upon by his kind, if they ever heard of it. But perhaps… he doesn't have to do anything _drastic_.

The children he finds are wary of strangers, as they should be, especially ones as obviously fey as he. He tries his best to soften that, and lets the toys do the rest of the work.

Very few children can resist a new toy.

He scatters his creations at every household he passes, and as the nights pass, his sack becomes ever lighter, until finally, he hands the last of his Earthly makes away. It is only then that he folds and tucks away the bag, and allows himself to vanish, disappearing to wherever he feels called to next.

But he does not stop creating. He is a Maker, after all, and one bout of creative mania is not enough to satisfy him. He doesn't think anything ever will. So he continues, and when he inevitably runs out of space, he begins his trek anew.

It's years later, centuries or millennia, he’s honestly unsure, when he hears the rumours. Human rumours, mind; much safer than diabolic ones. Whispers turned into tales into legends, of a man they've decided to call Nick, and the gifts he leaves for children every winter.

Of course, human history, as it does, swirls together multiple people and various areas religions, and Crowley still isn't sure how he's managed to become associated with a Saint. He's mildly amused by the connection to Odin of Norse myth.

All aside, his part in creating the legend of Santa Claus is one he's certainly never mentioning to Aziraphale. It would ruin his reputation.

(Never mind that the angel already knows. That, Aziraphale believes, is a secret Crowley needn't be aware of.)

**Author's Note:**

> I read or saw one interpretation of St. Nick's origins many years ago and it's stuck with me. (The gist: a woodworker who made little toys and trinkets and handed them out to kids.) I don't know what show/story it was or how to find it again, but that's the Santa Claus origin that I know and I thought it fit Crowley pretty well. And he seems the sort to stumble his way into being a figure like this haha


End file.
